


The Ghost of Rockery Bridge

by xGalaxyQueenx



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, AU where George died instead of Fred, Fred Lives, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, One Shot, george dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 22:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6726517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xGalaxyQueenx/pseuds/xGalaxyQueenx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It should have been me," Fred whispered to the night, "It should have been me, IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME!" He repeated it over and over again, getting louder and shouting until his voice became hoarse. George had been strong; he could have survived his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ghost of Rockery Bridge

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a few months ago on Fanfiction and thought 'Hey, how fitting to finally cross post this on here than on the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts.'   
> Thanks for reading!! xx

Fred stood in the middle of Rockery Bridge, looking out at the night sky. It was dark, clouds covered the moon and the stars, meaning that the only light in the desolate street was a lonely street lamp, flickering softly in the dark.

He had been here many times, running across the bridge with George when they were children, it had been their battleground, where they would fight bad wizards (usually Percy), and save the princess (usually Ginny). It was their doorway into the mystical realms, where they would go on adventures. It was their first Quidditch Pitch, and were they invented their first potion. He glanced down at the water below, Molly always warned them to be careful if they leant over too far, the water was fast flowing and deep, and there were a series of jagged rocks that looked like teeth about ten meters downstream. Molly always worried, always panicked about him.

Lately it was different though. His mother would just shoot him sympathetic looks, whilst bustling around as usual, just like everyone else. No one had spoken to him, other than to ask him what kind of potatoes he would want at dinner, or what range he planned to do with the shop next. No one asked him if he was okay, but he guessed that his pale, clammy skin and dark circles under his probably gave them their answer.

That name hadn't been mentioned since the funeral and memorial service. There was a lot of mourning and crying and then nothing, other than Molly occasionally calling him George at dinner and then breaking down. Fred was numb, he was supposed to feel broken, angry and upset, impossible to reason with, but he wasn't. He didn't feel anything.

As he pulled himself up to stand on the handrail next to the bridge, he wondered if he was a bad person because of it. Either way, there was no way he could move on without George. What could he move on to? His business was half George's, his whole existence was half George's and now that was gone. Fred had nothing to look forward to, because everything was his and his brother's, and similarly to how his soul had now been ripped in two, anything he even attempted to accomplish would also be half-hearted.

He balanced on the handrail of the bridge, walking along it slightly, hearing the voice of George laughing, pretending to push him off, and Molly shouting at them to be careful. It echoed around his head and into the night sky. He closed his eyes, watching the memory play out in his mind as an echo of blue skies, sunshine, and happiness.

"It should have been me," Fred whispered to the night, "It should have been me, IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME!" He repeated it over and over again, getting louder and shouting until his voice became hoarse. George had been strong; he could have survived this. He would have lived a long and happy life, mourning Fred for the appropriate amount of time and then moving on with his life. He would have married a girl, Angelina maybe, and had two kids. One named after him and one named after Angie's grandmother, Roxanne, just like she always wanted. And when they were old enough, George would have taken Fred II and Roxanne along this bridge, stood them in the very spot Fred was currently standing, and explained to them about their Uncle Fred, and how he died bravely fighting against the bad wizards.

George was a hero.

Fred was a coward. And he would die a coward, and be remembered as a coward. But it was better to be remembered as a coward than to live a life without George. Molly would understand, be hurt for a while, but she had already lost George and what was Fred without George anyway? Fred's soul had been lost for some time. The physical shell was all that remained, it wouldn't make a difference.

He looked at his reflection, George's reflection, which rippled dimly below and was broken by the rush of the water. George would probably be mad, Fred reckoned as he looked down at him from where he was stood. Mad that Fred was throwing away his life; that Fred was too weak to continue without him; that Fred would resort to this rather than be alone for the rest of his life.

Fred looked down at his feet, his balance almost failing him. He had written his will, and left it with a note to explain in his and George's bedroom. It had been the first time he had managed to set foot in there since the incident, but knowing that he was going to join his brother made it easier to bare. He had slipped out of the house around 2am, hearing the soft snores of his family as they slept soundly and peacefully.

There was only one more thing to do, and then he would be at peace. Be happy.

Fred closed his eyes, dug his hands deep into his pockets and leant forward, letting gravity draw him down into what must become a watery grave. The water was ice cold and black, and it sucked him in and rushed him towards the rocks that would very soon become the teeth that would clamp down on his miserable existence in this world.

His eyes flew open. He started struggling, struggling to breath, clawing at the water to let his mouth break the surface. He had changed his mind. He wanted to live. He _needed_ to live. Live the life George couldn't. He needed to get out, survive, and breathe.

But it was too late.


End file.
